


How the Story Ends, or rather, doesn't end.

by theskyeskye



Category: Dragon Age II
Genre: Canon Divergence, Character Study, Friendship/Love, Gen, M/M, Relationship Study, Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-29
Updated: 2014-04-17
Packaged: 2018-01-17 10:11:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 5,413
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1383667
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theskyeskye/pseuds/theskyeskye
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>One. </i><br/> <br/><i>Varric had only ever seen one scar on Anders before, in passing. In the Hanged Man the sweltering heat and dank humidity had encouraged a shedding of layers for all party members as they drank and played cards. He caught a glimpse of a scar, faint though it was, at Anders collar bone. It was silvery and something that looked years old, gained as a child no doubt.</i></p><p>  <i>Varric’s mind had pulled together a tale of a boy struggling to stay close to his mother, grabbing for purchase on anything he could, only to cause the templars to pull harder, more recklessly, and when they grabbed for his shirt their plate scratched deep, spilling the innocent boys blood for the first time. </i><br/> <br/>A series of drabbles I did, exploring the complex friendship between Anders and Varric.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. An Intimate Moment

**Author's Note:**

> A bit of a foreword to this piece... I started off just writing drabbles for a friend of mine and this sort of became a thing all its own that I just wanted to share. Not often enough do we touch on the little things that pass between Varric and Anders through the game. Despite the story Varric tells being about "The Champion of Kirkwall" I felt that the real story was one that Varric didn't tell, one he simply couldn't. Not yet. The story is really about Anders. And Varric's the only one who sees that.
> 
> Anyway, I hope you enjoy these, they're in no real order and are all relatively brief. I will more than likely share more as time goes on. Leave a little love with a kudos or comment if you liked or had any thoughts on these two and their friendship/relationship. I'd love to hear them.

He should have been a little more considerate when he decided his best bet was to stumble to Anders for aid. As his legs fought to keep him upright and he swayed uneasily into the clinic toward the privacy of the mage’s modest quarters, he could only think of the debilitating poison in his wound and the rot of whisky in his belly. 

He’d just wanted to see Hawke home safely, pleasantly drunk with no real consideration for his own well being in regards to the return journey. Had he known he’d reach Low Town and find himself on the receiving end of an ambush he might’ve taken Hawke’s offer for the couch.

But  _nooooo_ , Varric had said… I can make it just fine. 

A few miles and a stab wound later he found himself here. Ready to collapse, only the thought that if he did so he may very well die in his sleep keeping him upright. 

He reached out, clumsy gloved hand hitting the wood grain and giving it a hearty shove. The last of his energy going into the force it took to open the already slightly ajar door. 

The sight within was one he wasn’t quite prepared for. 

In the dimness of the small room, Anders was seated on a rickety three legged stool, stripped bare, and washing himself clean with warm water from a basin and a clean cloth. Varric could smell the bath oils and for a moment he thought he might have taken a wrong turn somewhere but no… That was definitely Anders.

_Bathing._

“ **Oh** ,” Varric managed to slur out the word, trying for casual but instead sounding more thrown off guard than he ought to have. After all. It was just human nudity. Right?

"If this is a bad time I can try not dying for a while longer and come back later," but he didn’t manage a step backward to return any of Anders privacy as he fell the short journey to the floor, blood oozing between his fingers where they remained clamped against his wound.

After Anders righted him and when morning brought clarity as well as a horrific headache while he sweat out the last of the poison, Varric couldn’t help but offer a grin and congratulations.

When Anders inquired ‘ _Whatever for?_ ' Varric raised a brow and glanced downward pointedly.

"The Maker has truly blessed you."


	2. Scars of an Apostate

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Varric steps in on Anders and sees his past painted across his skin.

The days grew shorter, the nights longer and hotter. With each setting sun the sense of urgency, the knowledge that something was about to change. Everything was about to change… It hung in the air around the mage. Varric had offered time and time again his support. No one deserved to suffer, to be weighted down on by a fearful society as the magi were. Living your life as a prisoner, constantly in fear of what might happen if one day you simply… make the wrong move.

He’d never been one for politics, and he’d certainly never considered the plight of magi, often opting to focus on his own personal struggles rather than those of the people around him.  He’d spent his life in this city. He’d seen so many things he’d brushed off. As he got older it was harder to ignore. **  
**

When all that suffering could be put into a physical presence in front of him, one so full of life and conviction, Varric felt every light in the world go out, one by one by one by…

_One._

Varric had only ever seen one scar on Anders before, in passing. In the Hanged Man the sweltering heat and dank humidity had encouraged a shedding of layers for all party members as they drank and played cards. He caught a glimpse of a scar, faint though it was, at Anders collar bone. It was silvery and something that looked years old, gained as a child no doubt.

Varric’s mind had pulled together a tale of a boy struggling to stay close to his mother, grabbing for purchase on anything he could, only to cause the templars to pull harder, more recklessly, and when they grabbed for his shirt their plate scratched deep, spilling the innocent boys blood for the first time. 

He’d felt sick then, hating his mind for conjuring up the images he couldn’t be sure were even close to the truth. He really hoped they were not.

But now, as he stepped through the darkened doorway into Anders’ clinic he caught a new glimpse. More than a glimpse. He  _saw_. Blood sullied armor and clothes were being pried away from the healer’s sore body so that he could wash the stench of death off himself, leaving him bare, save for the meager modesty of underclothes, in the deep orange firelight. 

As Varric approached, his own body whispering for him to simply stop moving for  _one damned second_ — he took in the vision before him with a sort of reverence he rarely showed anything, other than the dead and his crossbow. The light had a way of catching the scars and lining them in faint shadow. Where his skin dipped and puckered from old wounds beyond the reach of conventional healing light did not quite reach. It was as if darkness had pressed itself into his skin, branding him what he was and what he would become.

_Martyr,_ his mind hissed and preemptive grief struck Varric deep in places that housed memories of loss both older…

                                (…Bianca…)

                                             …and new…

                                                           (…Bartrand…)

This man was his friend. He was not just a mage, not just a fugitive, not just a healer, not  _just_  anything. He was a **man**. A man possessed with purpose and cursed by it. Varric’s throat felt tight, as it had shrunk to the size of a pinhole and he couldn’t quite breathe.

_**This man was his friend**_.

He wished he could have unseen the sight of Anders so openly displayed, painted with the scars of a past that had carved him brutally into the man Varric knew today. He wished he could close his eyes and just see Anders whole. He’d never be able to forget this. To forget the hurt that Anders had suffered. He’d never be able to stop wondering about the cause of each and every mark of survival.

When he wrote his story, he’d leave _this_  part out. 

He approached Anders and put on a familiarly impish smile despite how his chest ached and his body limped along.

"You really do have that rugged, fugitive mage thing down to a science don’t you? It’s no wonder they keep trying to hire you down at the rose," his tone was teasing and as he offered up a bottle filled to the brim with a carefully crafted solution to help him heal, and hopefully relax a bit. 

It was better to smile and pretend that everything was just as it should have been. 

Happy.


	3. Second Chances

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Varric cannot bear to leave Anders to die.

When he watched Hawke walk away from Anders, betrayal still so fresh in his eyes, Varric felt torn. For the first time since he’d had to consider killing his own brother, Varric felt as if his whole being, his very soul might get ripped in two. He watched as Fenris was quick at Hawke’s heels, and they were quickly walking away from the decimated square. 

Varric knew he had to follow but every moment, every laugh, every quiet conversation in the dead of night at the Hanged Man, every time Anders had confided even the tiniest thing in him and he’d returned that gesture with a bit of trust of his own, it all rushed at him like a blow to the stomach. 

Anders was  _dying_.

And maybe he deserved it. 

Varric moved hesitantly, listening to the labored breath of this man… This  _friend_. 

_You’ve been a good friend to me…_

"Hey, can you hear me Blondie?" Varric knelt down beside him, glancing up only briefly at the retreating forms of Fenris and Hawke in the distance. He would have to sprint to catch up to them but he couldn’t just leave him here like this. Not now. Not after everything they’d been through. 

He pulled a flask of strong healing tonic from the inner pockets of his duster and cupped Anders’ head in one hand while he pulled the cork out with his teeth and spat it away. 

This was the second hardest thing he’d ever had to do.

_This… all of this… better be worth it. And you… better **live**  to see it_.

He would have to betray one friend to save another.

He dumped the contents down Anders’ throat and covered his mouth as he choked on it, stopping him from sputtering every drop of healing liquid up. It wasn’t a spell, it wasn’t anything drastic, but it was enough. It was a chance for Anders to pull himself together and maybe…

Anders choked and coughed as the syrupy liquid slid through him and began to work. He couldn’t speak, the pain so unbearable he could only sob softly.

Varric pressed his brow against his friend’s and closed his eyes.

"Don’t you dare waste this," Varric hissed in warning, and then he was up again, tossing the empty bottle aside as he ran, quick as his feet could take him to catch up to the sounds of battle he heard rumbling up from the depths of the city.

Kirkwall was falling. 


	4. Run

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anders finds his footing.

His chest burned. Hot, sticky, oily liquid clung to his tongue and throat as he watched Varric disappear from his line of sight. Why? Why of all things would he do this? Give Anders a chance to— 

A guttural sound of agony ripped from his throat and he could feel Justice there, beneath his skin like, pulsing, pushing, clawing,  _fighting_. He had to get up. He had to pull himself to his feet. He had to grab for his staff. He had to heal himself. He had to take this chance. 

_He had to run_.

His legs ached as he struggled to get them beneath himself, his back bowed beneath the weight of his guilt. He looked at the demolished chantry and listened to the screams in the distance. 

Blue light filled the square and he filled himself with the healing light Varric had demanded of him. He had to see this through. He wasn’t done yet.

_He wasn’t done_.

The sun was sinking on the horizon, everything around him bathed in blood red shadow as he took gulps of air his legs finding one shaky step after another, slowly, steadily, he picked up speed, he followed familiar streets, he ducked behind buildings, passed through alleys, and found himself at the door to Hawke’s mansion. The passage in the cellar would take him to Dark Town. From there he could take the path beneath the city out. Out to the beaches, out to the sea, out of this godforsaken place.

He had work to do, and damnit he would do it. 

_Thank you, you crazy sod._

He wouldn’t waste this second chance.


	5. Obsession

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Varric would like to blame the writer in him for this... fixation... this obsession with a hero who didn't quite fit the archetypes.

Were Varric a better man he might’ve been able to resist the temptation to get closer. There was something about a tragic, struggling hero, full of darkness, full of agony, full of writhing, whimpering, beautiful grief… Maker help him, he was just unable to help himself.

His pen itched to curl around words to describe the length of Anders’ throat and the lay of his soft blonde hair against his cheek when loosed from it’s tie. The way each strand stuck against his high cheekbones when dampened with sweat and with blood. He watched from his seat, scrawling while peering at the mage as he shrugged out of well worn garments of cloth and leather and feathers.

The span of his shoulders, the jut of delicate bone under his skin, the whisper of scars, how his ribs laid close to the surface like keys on a grand piano waiting to be touched, to be pressed, instruments waiting to make beautiful and terrible music, each of these things created the enigmatic creature that the mage was. It was a mix of the masochist in him and the writer alike that lead him to this moment, this place of quiet admiration and addiction. He prayed that Anders would never know the dark things hiding in his own heart when he peered over the rim of his glasses and across the room at him so bare.

How could such a thing have happened? How did he end up here?

A battle roughened voice reached his ears, hoarse and low, yet still somehow so regal, and Varric snapped from his palace of metaphors and perfect symmetry where these thoughts were safe, were acceptable, were hidden away.

"Are you sure you do not mind housing a dangerous fugitive?" Anders’ smile betrayed his fear, it was tight, lips pressed too firmly together, brows furrowed just a bit. Varric could read the worry there. Varric could practically see the Chantry burning still reflected in those eyes— _those damnable eyes_ , “I don’t want to put you in danger anymore than I want to impose upon your kindness.”

In a way, Varric wondered if this was a game to the mage, standing there in his underclothes, blood still sticking to his skin in slowly drying flakes. 

"Anything for a friend," Varric replied with a slight incline of his head.

_Make help him_ …  **he was just unable to help himself**.


	6. Stay

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anders needed him. To Varric, that was all that mattered.

Varric could not pretend to understand what Anders was feeling. He’d never seen the man such a mess. Even when he’d had to end the life of his friend, when he’d had to fulfill Karl’s wish, he was not quite this broken up. There was fear in him that left his hands clammy as they wrapped around the offered up mug of warmed whiskey tea with honey. It was a cure, Varric had said, for all the things that ailed him. No amount of warm drink or pleasant company could truly wipe away the innocent blood that was still fresh on his hands. 

"It wasn’t you," Varric insisted, grasping Anders’ shoulder, rubbing his upper arm, trying in the only way he knew how to bring the mage a little comfort, a little peace, a little relief. 

"I could see her begging for her life and I… I couldn’t stop it. I was a prisoner in my own body I… I  _killed_  her,” Anders had said this so many times already tonight, so many times he retold the reason for his sickening, soul crushing guilt. That spirit of vengeance that dared to masquerade as Justice was rotting a good man from the inside out. 

"You wanted to stop," Varric said firmly, reaching a gloved hand up to grasp the side of Anders’ face, forcing him to look up from the amber liquid in his mug. Their eyes met and there was such conviction in Varric’s gaze, such surety, he believed the best of Anders and nothing more. 

"How can you…" Anders’ voice cracked, slipping away into the night. The steadfast warmth of Varric’s presence, the firmness of his hand, so strong against his cheek, the pierce of his eyes, like they could see straight to his center and see that beneath the pieces of himself and Justice that had begun to tangle together, there was still a man.

It was nothing short of miraculous. 

"You have been too great a friend. I can scarcely believe my fortune," Anders said after a moment, showing his gratitude. There was such genuineness in the smile Varric gave him.

"You’re damn lucky, mage. Don’t you forget it," Varric’s particular brand of humor was a welcome relief, more welcome than any whiskey tea, it was the truest salve for Anders’ open wound. 

Varric moved to pull his hand away and step back, but in the microsecond that he began to feel that leather slipping away from his cheek, Anders reached up, grasping tight, holding him steady. 

"Varric," the name was a rush of breath, desperation hanging heavy around the syllables. Varric was startled, but after a moment he coaxed his face into a picture of calmness. 

"Hey," Varric patted Anders’ cheek, still smiling. How it was that he managed such smiles in a moment like this was beyond Anders’ own comprehension. 

"How can you be so calm?" Anders words came out more like a demand and Varric let his hand drop to rest at the curve of Anders’ neck and shoulder. Another reassuring squeeze— Anders frowned deeply. 

"Because I  _know_  you, Blondie. I know you’re a sweet kid, a mama’s boy who got dragged kicking and screaming into a world he didn’t deserve to suffer in,” Varric’s words were sincere, lacking the usual practiced sound that Anders had come to associate with any of the dwarf’s falsehoods. There was so much sincerity. 

Varric watched as Anders’ face continued to crumple. He could see there, the thoughts about being unworthy of friendship or trust. He wished quietly to himself that he could dispell those.

"I  **know**  you’re a good man.”

Anders sucked in a breath, his jaw tight. He wanted to lash out, to correct Varric, to insist it wasn’t true, but instead he found himself helplessly falling forward, lips pressing to Varric’s own, tasting the iron of blood still lingering on his lips from their day’s battles. 

Varric’s breath caught in his throat, his open mouth suddenly captured, filled, claimed, by Anders’ kiss that begged the question ‘Why me?’ but didn’t really want an answer. 

He was caught up for a moment, his hands coming up, fingers twitching against the air between them, torn between pushing Anders’ away or pulling him closer as he let himself be kissed… For a moment, albeit a brief one, he kissed back. He let himself lean in just a fraction, tasting whiskey and honey and black tea along Anders’ tongue but…

He grasped Anders’ clothes, pushing him gently away, feeling Anders’ attempt to lean in still against the resistance, the softest noise of protest rattling in the back of his throat as his neck flexed with the stretch to try and get back to that kiss.

"Anders," Varric’s utterance of his name, so thick and raspy was like a slap to the face, sobering him. He pulled back just enough to allow Varric to relax his grasp, no longer in fear of Anders’ leaning in again… for now.

"I’m sorry I just…" Anders’ didn’t really have a good answer and now the humiliation, the rejection, they felt like stones in his stomach. 

"You don’t really want me. You don’t want this," Varric smiled sadly, the hint of self deprecation in the gentle laugh that peppered his words stinging Anders’ like whiplash. 

"You seem to think yourself an expert on me," Anders’ words came out almost challenging. 

Varric’s stomach twisted uneasily. He didn’t know what to think, what to say, there was no good answer for this. Not any of it. He just stayed there, staring at the mage, lips pursed and frowning.

”Stay with me,” it wasn’t a request, it was a demand, it was a plea, Anders’ voice was heavied by desperation. Varric felt so much conflict as he stared into those eyes, only level with one another because Anders was sitting and he was standing. 

"Please," Anders leaned closer, Varric was loathe to stop him, their foreheads pressed together and Varric’s eyes fluttered shut, " _please_.”

How could he possibly say no?

"I can’t," just like that, apparently. 

He made no move to leave. 

His fingers slid up to cup the side of Anders’ face again, his thumb brushed over the apple of his cheek and traced down the curvature of the gaunt hallow beneath it, committing those feelings to memory.

He wanted to take his gloves off.

He bowed his head, nose nestling in against Anders’ own.

_He stayed_.


	7. Tranquil Void

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Varric discovers Anders has been made tranquil.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for Major Character Death

Varric lifted the cup to his lips again; another bitter mouthful of alcohol wasn’t enough to wipe away the feeling of it… It was like someone had carved out his stomach, left him empty, slopping his insides all over the Gallows so everyone could see. He felt exposed. He felt…

A cold chill ran up his spine and he couldn’t stop the tension that had grabbed hold of his shoulders like a vulture, digging its talons in and dragging him down. No matter how many drinks he had he could still see it.

_Empty eyes, void of life, void of emotion, just…_

**_Void._ **

There was one thing that Anders had always told Varric. He’d tell anyone who’d listen.

Tranquility was a fate worse than death. 

_I see clearly now, Varric. My actions were misguided. Dangerous. It is better that I serve as an example to all mages…_

Varric’s fingers tightened against the metal in his hand, his breathing came in short, shallow gasps. He felt the heat, the tightness in the back of his throat. He couldn’t hold it in forever…

_Maker no… Not you. Please, for heaven’s sake, snap out of it!_

He couldn’t close his eyes without seeing that mark, without seeing an empty shell parading around as if it were still Anders at all. That thing… That void… It wasn’t him.

_You deserve better than this, Blondie._

The knife sat quietly on the table beside him, a bit of blood still clinging to the hilt. He’d gone back to the Hanged Man from the Gallows in a daze, knife in hand like a lunatic, dripping blood the whole way. 

He could still hear it ringing back in his ears, hear it push carefully between the ribs, the tear of fabric and squealch of flesh as he punctured Anders’ lung. 

_Hey… Shhh. Sh. I’ve got you. It’s okay._

He could still feel the weight of Anders in his arms as he sank down and they collapsed onto the stone. He could smell the blood as it had gurgled up Anders’ throat and spilled from his lips. He could see nothing in those eyes. No betrayal and no relief. There was nothing. 

Just void.

All there was, was void.

Anders was already dead, long before Varric got to him. 

His shaking hand lifted the drink again but he stopped short, nearly dropping the mug as his body shook and he gave one soft, shuddering sob. He dropped his face into his gloved hands and felt sticky blood smear across his cheek. 

Varric wept.


	8. Affection

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sorry about all the heartbreak hopefully this will fix it. c:

Even as he stood on his toes, laughter bubbling up in his throat, he only nudged the barest amount of skin with his nose. Anders’ hand was steady at his back, supporting him as they swayed slightly. Too much drink had left their balance a little off. 

Or a lot off, considering somehow, they were tumbling. 

In a heap on the floor of Varric’s suite they simply laid and laughed at their own drunken clumsiness. Each breathy, deep, rumbling laugh puffed out across Anders’ neck. After a few long moments, the laughter died and the mage’s cheeks flushed.

"Varric…?"

The dwarf didn’t answer. He hummed softly, nestling into the curvature of Anders’ neck and shoulder, running his nose along musky skin until his lips bumped against the sloping bone of Anders’ collar.

Varric heard the softest hitch in breath from above him and with an earthy chuckle and an impish smirk he pressed his lips there, soft and warm.


	9. Poetry in Motion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is a great deal NSFW eheh

It’s not exactly what he would have expected, but Anders has a way about him that simply begs for something… Something that is indescribable and Varric can’t quite put his finger on it. He has a darkness in his eyes and a fullness to his lips and a quickness to his words and there’s simply too much, too much, too much. Varric looks at him and is overwhelmed by what he sees, even more so by what he knows he doesn’t see. 

"I could write sonnets about your form, Blondie," he says, lips split in a wide and crooked smile as Anders lets the feathered pauldrons slip off his shoulders and onto the floor. 

"Sonnets? I’d rather you didn’t," Anders protests, despite the way his smile gives up his amusement. Varric’s brows raise as he reaches out a gloved hand and strokes it over a strip of the apostate’s exposed chest, the soft leather, well worn and used leaving goosebumps in its wake. Anders lets out a sigh, content to let Varric’s hands pull away the fabric that kept him covered and smelled of his musk and bath oils, letting the dwarf lay him bare.

"Antivan style poetry, then?" Varric offered, stepping closer to kiss smooth, bared stomach, taking in the heady aroma of sweet smelling sweat and skin. 

"Maker, _no,_ ” Anders chuckles and his hands find their way into Varric’s hair, loosing the tie that held it neatly in place so that he might run his fingers through it, pressing his nails lightly into the dwarf’s scalp. The rumbling approval he received sent a slight shiver of want through the man’s form.

"What? You wouldn’t like to be worshiped with words? I’m quite the wordsmith after all," Varric’s fingers began to unlace Anders’ breeches, pulling them open and down along with the flimsy fabric of his small clothes. 

"I think not," Anders replies, gasping slightly as Varric’s lips press to his exposed hips. His legs are tangled up in fabric, his boots still on, so when Varric gives him a gentle push he trips back and collapses into the softness of the dwarf’s mattress, breath exiting his lungs in an amused huff. 

Varric approaches the bed with a wicked smile, pulling Anders boots off one at a time, his fingers tickling the soles of his feet once exposed, as he spoke with overly dramatic affectation.

"The sweep of your collar is like a valley my mouth wishes to run the length of until it has no breath left. Your chest a plane of soft white sand, my fingers long to run through, basking in the sun-kissed warmth of it. The girth of your cock is—"

"Oh for the love of— Varric, _stop!"_ Anders laughter is like a fresh breeze whipping through the humidity of the bedroom and Varric takes it in with wonder. With careful, affectionate hands he pulls the mage free of his clothes and then kicks out of his own boots as he joins him on the bed. He lays beside the mage, his own clothes still in place for the time being, but truly, it isn’t about him, it is about Anders. Varric has longed to see him smiling again. 

While lying face to face, Anders kisses him, giggles still bubbling on his lips as they move into an intimate embrace. Varric lets Anders’ remove his gloves for him so he can feel the softness of his skin as his fingers run up and down the mage’s back and down over his thighs through soft hair. 

"Why must you spoil all my fun?" Varric teases as his fingers slip between their bodies and Anders’ legs to grasp him fully, stroking soft flesh to firmness with a few expert strokes. 

"Not all," Anders protests, breathless and flushed as he presses toward Varric’s hand. Varric’s lips pull into an impish smile. Anders had a point.

"No," Varric agrees, thumb brushing over the velvety tip of his manhood, smearing fluid and easing his strokes, "I suppose not  _all._ ”

Anders soft moans find a place to muffle themselves in the warm crook of Varric’s neck. 

"I— hah— I think all things considered, I give you lots of— hmn—" Anders tongue betrays him. No witty retort is to be found as Varric’s fingers squeeze and pull at his swollen flesh with familiarity. 

"What’s that, Blondie?"

Anders’ teeth nip and his lips suck at the skin beneath them, some form of revenge for the way he’s been undone by the dwarf. Varric groans softly, tilting his head back just enough to let him move more freely. He’d have marks tomorrow and he’d wear them with pride.

No one would know but them where he’d gotten the bruises, but that suited him just fine. These moments were meant for no one else but them anyway. When they could steal away and indulge in each other, all the problems they saw day to day were a little farther away. That’s what this really was.

An escape.

"You’re absolutely insufferable," Anders bemoans, thrusting helpessly into Varric’s grasp.

"Yeah," Varric chuckles darkly, "I know."


	10. Broken

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> uhm wow this was angsty

It was too quiet, a hush had fallen over the party and all eyes were dragging themselves away as Varric laid there. 

_I can’t… feel my legs._.. Oh and wasn’t this  _just **perfect**._  Dying down here in the deep, no blue sky above him. He’d always wanted to die above, possibly out at sea, never to be heard from again with people often whispering that he was still alive. 

"If I just had some more lyrium I could—"

Anders’ hands were pressed against the gaping wound at his side and Hawke couldn’t bare to look at his friends. He had turned to Fenris who was happy to shield him with a careful hand against the side of his face. 

"Those  _bastards_ … will pay,” Varric heard the champion growl. He wouldn’t fault him for looking away from death. He’d seen enough of it. He’d lost his entire family, one by one over the years, and now in the face of a tiny piece of his past, he was losing someone else. Varric coughed and felt his mouth fill with thick, coppery liquid.

_Blood…_ _My own blood._

Anders’ hands were shaking as he tried to force what little bit of magic he had left to push through them but they were not prepared for this. Nothing could have prepared them for this. 

"I ca…I can’t do it. I’m not… I don’t have enough…" Anders was stammering around words, his voice cracking as he exhausted himself. Varric could feel soft tendrils of healing magic touching him, taking away the pain but… 

The damage was too extensive. He was too far gone. They had  _nothing_  that could save him. 

"Hey," Varric rasped, grabbing wearily at Anders hands, feeling them slick with his blood. It made his skin prickle and his chest tighten. There was just so much of it, "hey calm… calm down, Blondie. It’s… It’s alright." 

"No! No it’s not alright! What good is magic if it can’t save my friends! If I can’t," Anders stopped himself, and Varric was grateful for it as he looked into the mage’s soulful brown eyes. 

"Hey now… It’s… fine. I’m fine," Varric coughed the words out, unconvincing of course, but despite the blood on his lips, he smiled. He watched Anders’ face twist up with regret, his eyes misting slightly. He’d always liked Anders. It was funny, now that he thought about it, some of his happiest memories were swapping stories in the Hanged Man over a meal. 

"How can you be so calm?" Anders squeezed Varric’s fingers, and the dwarf noticed how cold they felt in comparison to the mage’s own. He was so cold all over. He started to shiver. Anders didn’t hesitate, he tugged his coat off and laid it over the dwarf, trying still to save him, to heal him, to  _help_  him.

"Because… I’ll… Be…" Varric said quietly, so quiet that only Anders could hear. Anders leaned closer to listen as Varric spoke, "with Bianca."

As the mage hunched over him, holding onto one of Varric’s hands with both his own, he listened, as with his final breaths, Varric passed on the song he often hummed in battle. He passed on a story he’d held close to his chest for many years. He passed on the strength and the courage and the depth of his promise. 

"Take care of her for me… Won’t you, Blondie?"

Varric’s chest heaved as he tried to suck in just a few more breaths. 

He could have sworn as his eyes slid shut, never to open again, he heard Anders say  **yes**.


	11. Doomed

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> eheh slightly nsfw

His lips were like hot coals against Varric’s neck, full of life and electricity as they kissed a path over delicate veins into sturdy collarbone. He arched his back, pressing their bodies together, chest to chest, hips to hips, trying to find purchase in the sheets under him with desperately curling toes. He didn’t know what he was he thinking, letting this mage into his bed, into his body, into his everything; he was doomed from the moment they kissed.


End file.
